


Fight or Flight

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: In which Napoleon is on the run from THRUSH and exhausted, wishing his partner was with him.





	Fight or Flight

Hunger… exhaustion… pain… A mix of these sensations continue to haunt thoughts and actions as a desperate escape from THRUSH leads to an underground ossuary. The walls and ceilings of these ancient passageways are comprised of bones. The dead lay not in rest, but as witnesses to the suffering that continues to plague the world.

There is no time to ponder the bones—not now. There isn’t even time to tend to a wounded arm, still bleeding crimson. Failure to elude the relentless pursuers will mean joining the countless dead. The horrific thought of joining the dead of centuries past serves to inspire a surge of speed. Dying itself is a horrible enough thought; to die as a mere casualty, alone and away from loved ones, among other nameless and forgotten souls… No, that is a fate too terrible to consider.

There is only one option—to keep running.

A heart starts racing in what is recognized as fear. Though there is nothing shameful about feeling fear, a sense of resentment still creeps in—fear is not a desired emotion in a situation like this, running from THRUSH. THRUSH can sense weakness—sense fear—and zero in on it.

The attempt to push back the fear results in memories suddenly flashing back to days long ago in Survival School.

_“When stressed,” the instructor had said. “The body prepares itself in one of three ways—fight, flight, or freeze. When pursued by the enemy, be it THRUSH or some other organization, freezing is not an option. If you freeze, you are as good as dead; your enemies will show no mercy. You must fight, or you must flee.”_

The instructor’s words still echo in the present.

 _You must fight, or you must flee_.

Surrounded by skulls, shadows on every wall, footsteps echoing all around… Does one fight or flee in this scenario?

The adrenaline continues to surge, heightening every sense. The musty air practically burns the nostrils. A drop of sweat feels like a deluge. Each shadow seems to move as the flames of the torches dance. Adrenaline amplifies everything as the catacombs’ many tunnels lead into numerous directions. The only light comes from torch brackets, and every flicker of light illuminates more and more of the skulls that comprise the walls. The empty eyes leer and the ancient teeth grin, serving to unnerve all the more. It’s as if they taunt and tease—a reminder of the inevitability that falls upon every living thing at some point or another. Escaping from THRUSH here will only buy time.

But it is time that will be cherished. There is so much to live for—so many to live for. Parents… An aunt… A cat… A partner…

_Illya…_

Just the thought of his name, the mere recollection of his face—two blue eyes framed by a blond fringe—is enough to provide the inspiration to keep on going, even when in a hopeless spot such as this.

 _I shouldn’t have gone alone, even if it_ was _a simple courier assignment… I should have let you come with me_ …

Simple assignments have a nasty trend of still managing to find ways to go south sometimes. This is just another one of those times.

 _Illya… I love you_ …

Three little words—simple and monosyllabic. Yet they never seem to be said enough, even if they are always implied.

No amount of “Oh, but of course he _knows_ ” can dissuade the feelings now; as the adrenaline continues to surge, so do the longing wishes to see him again—to let him know what he’s done to change the life of just one person…

Thoughts trail off as the armed THRUSHie scrambles to a point just feet away; the dim light limits the THRUSHie’s ability to see, mercifully, but it’s only a temporary retreat… The decision must be made now: fight or flight?

Again, the blond-lined face momentarily floats into the mind’s eye. And the decision is made.

 _Fight. For Illya_.

Motivation is always a powerful thing. The THRUSHie doesn’t expect the attack, and it catches him off-guard; there is still no room to celebrate, even after the THRUSHie drops his gun. Feet scrape across the ground, trying to keep traction to allow the fighters enough leverage to throw each other to the ground. All previous exhaustion vanishes for a moment, allowing the THRUSHie to be overpowered and sent flying into the nearest pile of bones. The force of the blow knocks the THRUSHie out, but the expenditure of energy quickly catches up once the adrenaline wears off.

Weary legs finally buckle beneath an exhausted, bruised, and battered body, which is caught by the arms of several skeletons. The sensation is most unpleasant and very morbid, but there is no alternative—not until some small amount of strength is recovered. Then, it will be time to flee—

“Napoleon!?”

…There is no mistaking that voice, so laden with love and worry. It is the voice that is most welcomed, most loved—most wanted.

“Napoleon!?” Illya’s voice is laden with panic—no doubt from seeing the sight before his eyes.

As the next sensation becomes an embrace of well-loved, gentle arms, the strength to speak slowly returns.

“Illya…”

“Napoleon, I am so sorry; I flew out here the moment I heard there was trouble!” Illya’s voice is quivering—the only sign betraying his concern, for Illya always endeavors to hide his emotions as best as he possibly can. “I rounded up most of the THRUSHies that were after you, but one got away… Oh, Napoleon, I thought I had lost you…” The embrace tightens, and it seems too cruel not to release Illya from some of his worry.

“Illya… I love you.”

Illya’s face feels just the same—and so do his lips. It is a kiss full of love and relief—there is no mistaking the message that Illya is receiving, and the Russian has to let out a quiet sigh after the kiss.

“I love you, too, Napoleon,” he whispers. The gentle embrace tightens even moreso. It is the kind of embrace that could last forever, and every moment of it would still be same, wonderful sensation.

It’s the only thing that’s needed—the reassurance that, in spite of everything, it’s going to be okay.

And soon, the fight will continue once again—side by side, with victory in sight.


End file.
